


The Sun Shines Warmly

by ruinaimperii



Category: Unsere Mütter unsere Väter | Generation War
Genre: Gen, almost everything doesn't hurt for once, and i mean that in the biblical sense, because you know they are in this cozy little club called the wehrmacht after all, friedhelm winter knows nothing, warning for mentions of nazi ideology things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 12:42:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5497460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruinaimperii/pseuds/ruinaimperii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For once, Friedhelm's problems are of a quite mundane and juvenile nature, and Wilhelm finds that very funny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sun Shines Warmly

**Author's Note:**

> This contains a translation of a few lines of a German poem. Since I'm not actually a poet, here is the link to the original poem: deutsche-liebeslyrik.de/manuskript/manuskript2/manuskript2_5.htm

For once, the forest around them doesn’t loom dark and threatening. For once, it is an impressively beautiful day with clear skies and a warm sun; a rarity in the constant wet, stifling cold, and possibly the last one of the year. Wilhelm isn't the only one whose spirits seem to be raised from this ray of light: All the men are sitting outside as they used to in the beginning of the campaign, they have taken off their helmets and are chattering placidly in an endless fog of cigarette smoke between them. Even Friedhelm, who is sitting a little further off and has his nose buried in a book as usual, is smiling to himself like he was the only one in on some beautiful secret.

Wilhelm decides to go join him. The camp is set up and stable, there is nobody to reprimand and nothing to be on the wait for except the end of the day, and even if he barely talks to his brother outside of an argument or accusations nowadays, he is his brother. Maybe what he is reading and the gentle weather have managed to put him in such a good mood for once that a conversation can be held with him. They would both benefit from that.

Friedhelm does not look up or give any other indication of noticing him as Wilhelm approaches, he is too deeply immersed. It's actually quite a sweet scene, his eyes flickering over the page, his neck bent and his smile breaking out into a small grin occasionally. When Wilhelm sits down next to him on the bench and nudges his shoulder lightly, he jerks upright, looking almost scared, and hastily closes the book from behind so that the title is out of view. "Lieutenant", he says and nods; the enigmatic smile has vanished off his face like it had never been there to make room for an annoyed expression that conveys clearly just how much he appreciates this interruption, and his voice sounds slightly sullen. Obviously Wilhelm has been mistaken in assuming that he might be a little more accessible.

But Wilhelm decides not to give up that quickly, with a miniature sting that tells him Friedhelm should value the company of his brother more highly than some book. "Stop that, Friedhelm", he says, careful not to sound reproachful, and then, because Friedhelm's reply to that consists only of a shrug: "Look at the sun. I thought we wouldn't have weather like that again until April." In the same moment, he wishes he could have thought of something better, there's no way they can get a decent conversation going in that lane.

Friedhelm throws a quick glance up at the immaculately light blue sky and looks back at Wilhelm with barely concealed impatience. "Indeed."

"What are you reading?" Maybe that will work better. Friedhelm likes to talk about his books, or at least he used to.

But Friedhelm only makes a face at him. "Wilhelm, what exactly is this supposed to be?", he asks instead.

Wilhelms first impulse is to reply with an equally dismissive, uncaring comment and then just get up and leave. Friedhelm has been behaving from the first minute like an angry little child thinking he'd get what he wants if he just kept the sulking up long enough, and while that might work for little children – Friedhelm is a grown man, and just because he is trying to get around the war, that doesn't mean fewer people are dying. But Wilhelm is treating him so harshly so often nowadays that it seems too much even to himself, and he remembers how different of nature they are. What he has said to him a few days ago – _I'm not your brother here, I'm your superior_ – must have hurt Friedhelm deeply, and now he's sitting next to him, trying to strike up a conversation like the words had never come out of his mouth. From this angle, Friedhelm's distrust isn't all that baffling. And even if it's Friedhelm's own fault to a not particularly small degree, he really does scold him enough as it is.

So Wilhelm swallows his anger and hopes he hasn't let anything through. "Nothing special.", he says as neutrally as possible. "I just wanted to talk to you a little."

"Uh-huh.", Friedhelm says with little enthusiasm, but his face does light up a little. "Go ahead, then."

"No, you tell me something. You probably don't care about what I discuss with the captain in any case, I guess. What are you reading?"

Friedhelm frowns in surprise. "Do you really want to know that?", he asks. An undercurrent of testiness still hardens his voice.

"Yes." Wilhelm tries very hard to sound like there was no reason to doubt that.

"Well, great.", Friedhelm says and exhales with exasperation that seems uncalled for to Wilhelm. "Max Dauthendey."

"Max Dauthendey.", Wilhelm repeats. _Doesn't ring any bells_ , he wants to say, but then name does sound vaguely familiar after all. After a few moments of laboriously digging through the deeper chambers of his memory, he remembers – the man was a painter as well and has died more than ten years ago on Java. He had quite the affinity for exotics, which is why he's been put on the list of prohibited literature under the Führer. And now Friedhelm deems it necessary not only to own a book by him, but to bring it to the Eastern Front as well and read it in broad public like there was nothing about that. It's unbelievable. Friedhelm is unbelievable.

Wilhelm rises to his feet, shaking his head in lasting disbelief. "Friedhelm, that's on the list.", he says as collectedly as he can, which isn't very collectedly. Unbelievable.

"Hm, that's a pity.", Friedhelm says with an amount of serenity that is downright insolent.

"Give that book to me. You know I have to confiscate it."

"No.", Friedhelm says decidedly and leans back so he can look coolly at him from a little higher up. He still has his forefinger tucked between the pages so he can read on later, and that sight is what makes Wilhelm lose all carefully-assembled patience and indulgence. Of course he can see that Friedhelm is unhappy, a blind man could see it, but he is becoming more and more convinced that Friedhelm doesn't actually want it any other way. He isn't even trying to improve his situation. No, he seizes every opportunity to renegade, to make everything just that much worse, to be able to wallow in his misery feeling like a martyr because he is the only one not getting his hands dirty, or so he thinks. On some days, Wilhelm would really like to ask him just how noble-minded he thinks letting other people do the dirty work and getting along on their backs is. Any measure of special regard for Friedhelm is a waste, he feels that very distinctly in that moment.

With a quick move, he snatches the book away from Friedhelm and turns it over. " _Max Dauthendey: Collected Works, Volume Four_ ", he reads out loud derisively and opens it. The pages fall open in the place Friedhelm had marked. The poems are short, something about spring and chestnuts – Friedhelm is such an awful romantic – but there is one word that catches his eye: Doesn't it say something about breasts there?

Wilhelm takes a closer look at the poem in question with narrowed eyes. The title is _You Are More Than A Spring_ and it begins with the lines _The sweet lilacs stand only once / a year on the tree / Your breasts are blooming for me year out / year in, you are more / than a spring_. The rest of the poem doesn't contain any more explicit terms, but that certainly doesn't make it any more proper. Wilhelm leafs through a few pages and discovers that nearly all these poems are addressing the same topic in more or less thinly veiled ways. Completely dumbfoundedly, he just stares at Friedhelm who returns his stare with a glowing, guilty red flush on his cheeks, and breaks into roaring laughter. Friedhelm really is unbelievable.

He laughs and laughs so hard he feels tears in his eyes and the book almost slip out of his grip; he notices Schneider and Bartl turning around to their lieutenant in confusion, but then his gaze falls back on Friedhelm's face and he starts giggling like a schoolgirl again.

"Are you about done then?", Friedhelm asks ungraciously once he has finally cooled down a little.

"Yes", Wilhelm says, slightly out of breath and still grinning from one ear to the other, but he sits back down next to Friedhelm and lights a cigarette. He offers one to Friedhelm as well, and Friedhelm takes it reluctantly. Wilhelm does feel a bit sorry for finding this so irresistibly funny, but it really is, and having something to laugh about after all this time just feels so good. And to think that there could be such a mundane reason behind Friedhelm's prickliness! With the author being on the list, Wilhelm has been expecting to find something more akin to insurgence, maybe even a deep philosophical essay on the importance of racial diversity or something like that, but instead, his little brother is reading erotic poems. Who would have thought Friedhelm might descend into such sinful swamps? "Friedhelm, _that_ was your problem?", he asks incredulously, but without malevolence.

In a futile attempt at saving at least the shards of his dignity, Friedhelm blows a long stream of smoke into the clear air in wordless eloquence and squints at him bashfully.

"I'm sorry, Friedhelm, I didn't want to make fun of your… _plight_ there, but… you know, that's just the sort of thing that happens in war. I'm not allowed to tell you that, but why don't you go to the town in the evening the next time we pass by one? The others do it as well, even Schneider, and you know how concerned he is with keeping the German race clean."

Friedhelm crosses his arms and takes another deep drag on his cigarette. "It's not like that was a briefly occurring, singular incident.", he says slowly, his gaze fixed firmly on a single tiny cloud above the forest-lined horizon. "It's more of a constant, original condition, you see?"

Wilhelm has to bite down his laughter forcefully again, but this time it would really be callous. "I see.", he squeezes out and suddenly feels the urge to pull Friedhelm into a hug. He is so bright and perceptive, and at the same time he actually is still so young and innocent in so many ways. Unexpectedly, he also understands Friedhelm's fear of the war a little better now. "But didn't you have that one girlfriend, Marlene or something, what about her?"

"Her name is Magdalena, and that wasn't very much about anything. We kissed like two times, maybe." Friedhelm lights a second cigarette. "And here in Russia, I don't just want to…" He shrugs. "You know?"

Wilhelm nods more gravely than he feels. "Yes, I understand. That's quite the situation you have there. But you're still so young after all."

Friedhelm shoots him a very disbelieving look. "Why, how old were you?"

"Well…" Wilhelm quickly weighs the benefits of lying, but decides against it. Friedhelm would notice anyway. "Seventeen. But that was –"

"Yes, you see, and I'm eighteen.", Friedhelm cuts him off. "And apparently I'm old enough for all of this as well." He lets his gaze wander across the camp, the smoking soldiers, the playing farmer's children and the washing women with their aprons and headscarves and hard, wrinkly faces.

"Yes, but Friedhelm –"

"And Charly's been head over heels for you since she's been sixteen, and I'm not even gonna start on Viktor and Greta."

Wilhelm frowns. "Really, that long?" He's known it for about a year, but if she's been carrying that around with herself… it must be four years now. It must have been hell for her. He feels his awe of her strength increase even further and at the same time, it rips his heart apart. Charly has been carrying that around with herself for four years without ever saying a single word, and there is nothing he would sooner do than to drive over to that hospital and to tell her all these things she could never spit out and more, and to kiss her until they'd both run out of air – but he can't. He still believes in Christmas in Berlin together, but that is more of an estimation of the war's length than an illusion about the safety of his own life. A single well-placed shot or even just a ricocheting bullet would be enough.

"Yes, that long.", Friedhelm says and pulls him back into reality. The sky is blue, the sun is warm, and Wilhelm determinedly tells himself that brooding like this not only ruins the nice mood, it doesn't change anything about what will or won't be either. Caution is good, but fear cripples.

"Hmm.", he says. Silence falls heavily around them for a few seconds. "You know, I could always ask Greta if she has any friends who might be of any help to you."

Friedhelm stares at him, completely aghast. " _Heavens_ no", he breathes in horror, but then he finally smiles as well, at least a little, and the veil is lifted again. "You're horrible. Greta's already teasing me all the time as it is."

"Really? Why, what's she saying?" To be honest, he is not surprised to hear that. Greta and Viktor have been together since they were seventeen, and that sort of modesty is not exactly in Greta's nature.

"Well, for example we were in this other pub once, you were in service at the time, and apparently this waitress had a thing for me, or at least that's what Greta said. Anyway, she was dropping hints all the time, that women didn't bite unless I asked them to, and then only a few, and how it'd be good for me to have some steam blown off and all that. She was like that the whole night, and then Viktor got started, too." Friedhelm rolls his eyes, but he can't quite stifle his grin.

"Viktor? Honestly?"

"Oh yes, Viktor. Let me tell you, he's not all that quiet and fair-minded, everyone just thinks he is because he always lets Greta talk. He started telling me about how he knew that I'd probably rather want to talk to you about these things, but since you weren't there, in case I wanted to ask him about anything, he'd always listen to me, and so on."

Against his good intentions, Wilhelm can't stop himself from laughing again. He can see the scene in vivid colors in his head, the warm, crowded inn, Greta and Viktor cheerfully edging each other on, even the waitress trying her best to get his little brother to notice her, and caught in the crossfire, said little brother who was probably blushing beet red up to his hairline and wishing he could die on the spot. And Charly? Charly would likely have been just as embarrassed as Friedhelm, she'd be the one telling everyone to get off his back. She's like that.

"Don't give me that look", Friedhelm says. "You're laughing, I can see it. That's the exact same look Charly was giving me."

Or maybe not. Well, it's well-known how still waters run deep. Wilhelm actually finds it quite endearing; Greta is a little too brazen for his tastes, and all the other girls' modesty just makes them bland, but with Charly, it's different. It's ennobling, in a way. And if she's just a little cheeky now and then, probably while feeling slightly guilty about it, that's just the cherry on top.

They chat on for what feels like forever, until the sun hangs low above the horizon and the sky is slowly starting to darken, about the other three, about girls and love and Bartl's imaginary fiancée and a thousand other things, and Wilhelm can see plainly how good this is for not only himself. Maybe there are other, more profound topics at hand, Wilhelm is convinced that Friedhelm has a few other questions to ask of him, as does he himself, but on this single afternoon, these things aren't that important. On this single afternoon, the sun shines warmly on the soldiers.

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to the audio commentary and the director says something at the end of the first film about how right now, they're just two boys talking about girls. I thought that was very nice, but also that actually only Wilhelm got to talk about Charly, so I fixed that. Not that Friedhelm has a lot to talk about.
> 
> Max Dauthendey was an actual person (who unsettlingly enough looks like a younger version of my grandpa on his Wikipedia page), and if you think that was tame, he also wrote a poem titled "Your Kisses, Your Breasts, Your Arms". In late 19th/early 20th century Prussia/Germany. I couldn't find out whether he was really indexed, but from 1933 on, he was becoming increasingly unpopular and his works meet two criteria for going on the list (inciting pleasure which was seen as selfish and therefore bad, and liking foreign cultures), so it's fairly plausible at least some works of his were.
> 
> When Wilhelm calls Friedhelm an awful romantic, he means that in the 19th century German literature sense of the word - full of Profound Emotional Anguish, brooding and lengthy contemplations about nature.


End file.
